Too much reading makes you goofy

Tonight I have been reading The Liars' Club, by Mary Karr.


It's too good a book. Ms. Karr is so good at re-creating what it's like to be a little girl in a home with alcoholic, brawling parents, and a mother with mental illness that I find myself feeling sad and anxious, as if I am in the same situation.

In reality, I haven't been a little girl in several decades. And my parents were (and remain) two of the finest people you'd ever want to meet. And they gave me a loving, stable upbringing.

The upside of the book is the resiliency of all the characters. I benefit from having read Mary Karr's third memoir, Lit, before reading The Liars' Club, so I know how things turned out for her in the long run: better than you might expect, although victories not easily achieved; much pain along the way.



But in The Liars' Club you have to admire the bravery of the little girl Mary and her older sister, Lecia, for surviving, for taking care of each other and even of their mother, and for having the will to keep moving on through life.

There's a third memoir, in the middle, called Cherry, that I suppose I'll also read eventually. I may need a little break first.

The title of my post comes from a conversation my mom and I sometimes have. Like me, my mom has always read a lot. Or I should say, I am like my mom in being one who reads a lot. Anyway, she tells me that her mom used to tell her, "You shouldn't read so much. You'll get goofy." I always respond, "Well, Mom . . ." It's one of our favorite jokes.